The Writer
by EddieKickAxe
Summary: Or, The Five Times Alan Wake Claimed He Was a Writer, and the One Time He Didn't. Just a short drabble fic and an attempt at the 5 times/1 time style. American Nightmare included. Enjoy.


_My name is Alan Wake, and I'm a writer._

It seemed bit too much on the cliche side, but Alan didn't give the opening lines of Departure a second thought. They were perhaps the most important words of the entire manuscript; the ones that declared himself the protagonist, and gave Bright Falls a fighting chance. If he had chosen anyone else, created anyone else, _(My name is Alex Casey, and I'm an NYPD detective,)_ it'd be all over. Writers had the power to change minds, to change reality. The Dark Presence made the story real, but it wanted the pages to give it the power and freedom it craved. Only the writer had the chance to change the tale, to depict a final battle, to leave the ending up to chance. Alan was terrified of what would happen along the way, but as long as he had some input, he wasn't going to give the Dark Presence what it wanted.

All Wake could do was pray that his past self had given Departure a chance at a happy ending. After all, he'd let his last protagonist bleed out in a filthy Manhattan snowbank. Alan hoped for his sake that his new novel really was a departure from previous works.

* * *

"Oh my gosh, Rusty! It's him! The writer!" A blond waitress in a red dress all but shrieked. Alan immediately pressed himself back against the glass door, rattling the bells attached to the top again. He looked around to avoid eye contact, only to find himself standing to his left. A cardboard display of himself, from when The Sudden Stop was being promoted.

"What writer, Rose?" A man in a green ranger's jacket asked, looking over his shoulder. Rusty did a double take, seeing Alan standing right next to his immobile twin. He nearly dropped his coffee.

"Um...yeah. That's me," Alan stated, reluctantly. _The cat's out of the bag, might as well try to be friendly,_ he thought. "Alan Wake, writer, nice to meet you…"

"Rusty," the ranger replied, taking another sip. "And this is here is Rose. She makes the best cup of coffee you'll ever have, Mr. Wake."

 _I doubt it,_ Alan thought, remembering long nights when Alice would wrap his hands around his favorite mug and remind him that his typewriter would still be there tomorrow.

Alan stepped up to the counter to mingle with the locals. He wasn't about to start this vacation off on the wrong foot. He owed that much to Alice. Even if Rose's babbling was grating his already jet-lagged nerves.

* * *

"Woah woah woah," Wake protested, "I'm just a writer!" He threw his hands up in a display of innocence. Agent Nightingale pointed the gun at Alan's chest, his actions driven by anger and whiskey.

"Give it up Stephen King! I know what you did! Did you think I was going to let you get away—" Alan didn't wait around to hear his speech. He sprinted past the gate and into the woods beyond, hearing bullets tear through the space he had occupied seconds before. Nightingale was clearly out of his mind, and Alan didn't have time to set him right. He had to keep going. He had to find Alice.

* * *

"I'm a writer, goddamnit," Wake slurred to Barry, brain fogged down by the Anderson's moonshine. (What do they put in this stuff? Cyanide?) Barry mumbled something in agreement, that sounded akin to "Yeah, Best-seller!" God if he wasn't as wasted as Alan was. Or felt. (Did they really drink that much?)

"I could write ten books a year, and they'd be the best ten books...of that year!" Alan claimed, sloshing around the half empty bottle in his hand. Barry snorted and laughed, before agreeing enthusiastically.

Later, curled up on a cold cot in Bright Falls' Drunk Tank, nursing one hell of a hangover and longing for his wife, Alan wasn't so sure. Ten books? No, the whole reason for their trip was because he couldn't even write _one_. Christ, he was a failure. As an artist. As a _husband_.

Alan rolled over, curling deeper into his Tweed jacket, dreaming of blond hair, soft eyes, and the click of a camera shutter.

* * *

"Come here Writer, tell me a story."

Alan smiled, running a thumb down the cracked white plastic of the Clicker. He probably looked a wreck, with dark circles under his eyes and scratches from running through the woods. He stood stock still in the Well-Lit Room, holding an empty white shoebox and cradling a busted old switch with no cord. He closed his eyes for just a moment, remembering the last time he'd seen it.

"You know, I used to be afraid of the dark too, when I was a kid—"

The power outage. He'd lit enough candles to light a cathedral, and heaped blankets on the couch for warmth. Alice had asked for a story. She called him her Writer.

Alan pressed his thumb onto the button, hearing the soft _click_ and pictured all the darkness and monsters that a 5 year old Alan and much older Alice knew were real being bathed in light.

The Well-Lit room didn't look any different. He said his goodbyes and wandered back out of the dam. He threw a hand up in front of his eyes, blinded by the light as he stepped out of the tunnel. He smiled, squinting at the sunrise.

He had the power. He knew what he had to do. He rode in the direction of Cauldron Lake with complete determination, and not a trace of doubt.

Alice needed her Writer.

* * *

Alan spat out sand, slowly opening his eyes. They widened as he took in the orange and blue surrounding him, and he sat up wondering how exactly he arrived in the desert. A loud noise, some ungodly combination of wood snapping and water surging caught his attention and he looked over his shoulder to see Bird's Leg Cabin sinking into a murky green pool of water.

 _Good riddance,_ he thought, rising to his feet and brushing dust off of his blue flannel shirt. Alan vaguely remembered wearing something similar on a trip with Alice back in the day. She had teased him about his grunge look. Even now, it made him smile.

He spotted a flashlight on the ground nearby and picked it up. A few solid smacks into his palm and it flickered to life. The beam of light fell on a handgun in the sand, and Alan picked it up too.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, (was it imagined? real? created?) he could hear the voice of a familiar narrator, one that brought back memories of his first real job: a staff writer.

 _But tonight, he is no longer a writer. Tonight, he is a warrior, fighting in a battle both ancient and eternal. He has entered the war to seek out his double, his evil twin born of the Dark Presence. The Herald of Darkness, known only as Mr. Scratch._

 _The man has been spat out of the darkness that hopelessly surrounds the edges of our reality. He has come to fight a decisive battle…_

"...in Night Springs," Alan finished. He clicked the safety off of the 9mm.

He could be a writer some other time. For now, Alan Wake was the Champion of Light.

The sound of a chainsaw echoed off the rocks around him. Alan could feel his pulse rocket, and quickly began jogging towards a motel in the distance.

Writing was never this exciting anyway.


End file.
